


secrets

by angramainyu



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Holding Hands, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, it's vaguely implied at least?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angramainyu/pseuds/angramainyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's almost like they belonged together, solemnly by the way their hands entwined together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	secrets

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write some holding hands fluff and i ended up writing this for my boyfriend, i guess. gerome is supposedly lon'qu's son here since he has black hair.

Like a rising sun, warm and welcoming, so was the feeling of skin against skin when one of them often covered himself in garments and armor. They’re all dark, black as was his hair, and the pale color of his skin underneath all of it was a rare sight as was the sun when it rises and sets itself on the horizon. It’s always _there_ , but it’s not often something many see. When one is used to handling heavy axes and the reins of a wyvern, many would assume their hands are -- _bruised, swollen, damaged, unsightly_ , but neither of those could be spotted when Inigo **(**  carefully, gently, with a delicacy that’s hardly seen even from himself **)**  takes -- one, two, three of his friend’s fingers and pull his hand closer and closer to his face.

It is, too, a rare sight when Gerome is found sleeping so peacefully; it’s his _house_ , his property, and it’s to be expected but not at all -- and though the idea of taking in all of the man’s features is one that he muses for as long as he managed **(**  his _maskless_  face, he thinks, is so rare that the sight of his skin, uncovered by sharp edges and dark colors is just too pretty, too _breathtaking_   **)** , it is not at his face that all of his attention is laid on.

It’s at his hands, free from the warmth of dark gloves, and so delicate that, for a moment, Inigo nearly thought they didn’t belong to a man who swung axes around like they were fans and didn’t belong to a battlefield, but to a stage dancing to the rhythm of drums like he has seen a few girls doing the several times he has gone to the nearest festival. They’re hands free of any bruises, hands that seemed to never have touched a weapon, never have killed a Risen, never have beared the weight of protecting the lives of innocents and holding the corpse of dead parents. They’re hands that, at the same time, knew how to work with a line and a needle, gently **&**  carefully, like they didn’t belong to a warrior but possibly to a housewife.

They’re soft, too, like his own mother’s. The way his fingers touched so gently Gerome’s own was nearly, he remembers, like the way he -- little, innocent, _so shy_  -- held his mother’s much bigger hands when he was too scared to approach their neighbor’s daughter. It feels nostalgic, and it feels like home; the way he **(**  forbiddenly, he knows, and how _dead_  would Inigo be were Gerome to wake up at that very instant **)**  intertwined their fingers together; first his ring finger, slowly, followed by his middle and index fingers, and closed any distance between their skins when his thumb connected to the back of his friend’s hand. It’s _warm_ , the first thing he notices, and they fit so easily **&**  perfectly that, for a moment, it’s like they belonged together. 

Gerome’s skin is too soft, too delicate, and it’s almost, _almost_  like Inigo was holding a girl’s hand. It’s an amusing thought, it brings a breathless laugh to his throat, but he likes it that way; it’s a man’s, and it’s Gerome’s, and for several minutes he takes in the small details intertwined with his own hand. Like how the color of their skins differed so slightly, Inigo’s being just a bit darker -- it’s to be expected, of course, when one was seen with gloves the majority of the day, and only removed them when the sun had already set and the moon irradiated the valley. There was a mole too, small and just a bit darker than his skin, carefully placed near his wrist, just a bit under his thumb. The smile that is brought to his face is nearly immediate, it’s small and genuine and it’s _silly_ , _so silly_  to think that such tiny mole could make one so happy. Because it feels nearly like a secret, _their_  secret; a hidden mole that only the two of them knew of. 

And it’s as much as a secret, he thinks, as the feelings he so desperately wanted to reach Gerome through their connected hands, through how hot Inigo’s skin was purely to be so close to his. Because words are much harder to be put together when he found himself in the other’s company, and if there was a way to convey his feelings -- maybe it’s by _touching_ , by holding his hand and not, never wishing to let him go.


End file.
